Birds Of A Feather II
by Out of Custody
Summary: ... And so will pigs and swine.


**I should be doing work ... or the likes. And while it's not _precisely_ procrastination, it is in a way. Still, I have hopes that you will appreciate this form of procrastination. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

He watches her getting used to the womanly clothing of this place. Obviously she has neither an idea of how to tie the lacings, nor how to move in such garments. Due to Severus' distance to her, it is not Sansa who teaches her how to move, it is – and he doesn't know if he's shocked by that particular revelation or not – Jaime Lannister, who scolds her like a Septa when her back is not straight enough, or when her steps are too hurried for a Lady.

"Don't stomp like that." He admonishes, "A lady has a floating gait. Floating." He repeats and she does her best to do as he asks, when Rickon suddenly barrels into her and she loses all sense of composure.

"Rickon damn it! I'm trying to fucking float here!"

He chokes on his laughter when Jaime's eyes cut to his, but as soon as he is out of ear-shot, he bellows out his glee and cries tears.

* * *

Despite her loudly voiced displeasure of Lannister's training, he can see how it paid off when they visit the next House.

Thankfully she has opted for men's clothing during the travel, for anything else would be entirely too complicated and uncomfortable (even Lannister has to agree). But when she descends the winding staircase of House Tyrell he smiles softly, seeing the simple, but delicate, dress of saffron yellow.

He stood as she entered – his parents hadn't taught him to, but the Court had – as did Willas and Loras – they'd been taught to by their parents. As she sits next to him, he cannot help but think himself the luckiest of bastards within these halls, where gentle ladies sat next to monsters.

* * *

The Tyrells leave Willas to them – a one-legged cripple, but still fair to look at, and especially gifted in charming people with mere words and a smile.

He has to restrain himself from turning around in his saddle, reaching out and squashing the skull of the dolt between his fingers – he was sure he could do it, after all his hands _were_ huge.

What is worse is that all of Hermione's attention is on Willas, for the whole of the laborious, slow travel home – because while he and Hermione could ride like devils, pitch their tent at evening and be done with it, Willas Tyrell did not have the ability to ride unhinged anymore, and his house had sent a whole guard with him, hoping to provide safety (he knows they think safety comes in numbers, but these days staying low is clearly more advisable).

She laughs with him and keeps her mare constantly next to his, riding shoulder to shoulder – in return, his gums never stop flapping and for three days (on and off, naturally) Sandor wonders if the blonde even breathes.

* * *

When it comes down to it, Hermione is at his side in a flash.

Lannisters seemed to have gotten wind of their trek to House Tyrell and had decided to intercept their way home. He swears as the small guard of Lannisters stands prepared, but even as he unsheathes his sword, he can hear Hermione closing in on him, bow at the ready.

Tywin regards her closely, looking at the total of her posture before even sliding his eyes over to him, sword drawn, ready to fight, as is the 'Lady Ambassador' next to him. He shakes his head then.

"I have heard of your treason, Clegane, I have not believed it."

"You should." He ground. "I was never sworn anything, I was free to leave as I wished. And I had every reason to leave."

Tywin pulls a face. "That you were. But therein lies not the treason."

Sandor smirks then, hoping it makes his face as ugly as people whispered it did. "Aye, I took the Little Bird with me." He shrugged. "But it wasn't like she or I were guests… and Cersei, at least, realized that Jaime wasn't coming back, no matter the leverage."

The man nodded. "True, indeed. A shame Jaime didn't want to come back."

And then, with only a swerve of the sword in his arm, the guard attacked. Hermione didn't hesitate (she shot him, right into the left eye).

* * *

"Jaime?"

She was soft-spoken and careful when she entered the Kingslayer's solar on silent feet, dressed practically her best and washed to an extent where her skin had been red. Tywin Lannister's body had been wrapped in white linens before transported away, with them, to their destination.

(Willas, thankfully, had shut – the fuck – up for the remaining travel.)

The blond man looked up from where he was bent over a slip of parchment – a raven, he supposed, from earlier. His eyes were glassy when he directed them at the woman in front of him, letting it fall from his shaking fingertips.

"Cersei wrote… wrote that he didn't want to, but that she begged him to go… that Joffrey wouldn't have it any other way…"

The perfect friend, she rounded the table hastily, pressing her hands into his, her eyes pooling with tears, as did his.

"I'm sorry he had to go…" he said silently.

She said nothing then, and when they were sent away to leave Jaime to grieve, she put her hand on his shoulder one last time. "He's in the catacombs, guarded, until you decide what you wish to do with him."

She lay in his arms that night.

* * *

When Willas Tyrell realized that the woman he'd 'entertained' so well, slipped out of the Hound's confines at each break of the morning, he didn't take long to confront her – her, instead of him, who would have been a much harder target.

"What are you doing in his chambers, my lady?" he asked, one evening when they sat in the rose garden of the humble castle the Queen had made hers – now named Dragon's Lair.

She turned her head, her barely confined locks dancing, and took the young man in with as much scrutiny as he did, before she chose a rather haughty tone: "I lie in his arms – night by night. And trust me, ser, there is nothing… uncouth about the way he holds me."

The man furrowed his brow as much in anger as in confusion. "How can you say that?" he demanded to know, his voice rising – Sandor stopped tending to his sword under the Almond tree to send them a cautious look. Willas glared at him – he went back to his work before the knight turned back to the Lady Ambassador, fury in his eyes. "How can you say that when clearly this man has no idea of honour, of gentleness, of morale? Has your septa not told you that only those wed may lie in one bed? Do you not know of the dangers of a man?"

To his amusement, Hermione only cocked a brow, before leaning back on her hands, turning her head away from the blonde knight to look at the roses around her.

"Ser… I fear that there is a mighty difference between the Ladies you are usually around, and me."

Willas bent forth, hoping to either really, really, really catch what she was saying or perhaps steal something he shouldn't – if he ever got the chance (as if Sandor would let him).

"To my understanding, Ladies hold most close to them their courtesies and their virtue." Willas nodded, leaning back again a little as Hermione snorted. "Well, Ser Willas of House Tyrell, my virtue was taken from me."

She told him thusly with so much lassitude in her voice, Sandor was sure it shocked the soft-mannered and sensitive Tyrell (glancing up, he did indeed notice – with no little amount of glee – that the man _had_ gone quite pale).

"I cannot be married, which is why the Queen has not done so yet with me." She smiled carefully. "But due to… well, other circumstances, Your Grace the Queen Denaerys allowed me to choose the spot as her ambassador. Though I cannot travel without a man – it is unheard of, and so Sandor Clegane was assigned to my cause."

She touched her hand to the shoulder of the obviously crestfallen man (had she truly not noticed that Tyrell had been hell-bent on courting her?) and smiled reassuringly. "He knows more of my past than anybody else within the court."

Tyrell nodded. "It is where you learned to fight, is it not?"

Hermione gifted him with another smile, reaching for a rose. "Amongst other things, Willas Tyrell." The flower was a mute yellow, almost thorn-less, but she still took care as she severed the stem from the rest of the bush, turning it in her hand. "He knows my demons, which is something I could never ask of any other person – be it man or woman. Trust me when I say, you will be very happy that you did not reach the point of interaction with me, you thought you wanted to reach."

(Ah… so she _had_ noticed…)

"It is because he is a warrior that he understands…" Willas started, but Hermione shook her head, smelling the rose.

"It is because he is scarred, that he understands, Ser Tyrell." She intercepted. "It is because he has demons, that he understands." Calmly she reached for his hand, gifting him with the rose, as she stood. "It is because he does not think he is in a place to judge, that he understands."

* * *

When he entered his room – their room – that night, she sat on the floor, Assass splayed out in front of her like a young pup, tongue lolling out between his mighty jaws as she rubbed him on his tummy. There was a small but warm fire blazing in the hearth, warming the chamber chilled by the autumn air.

They shared only a look, a nod, before he began to relieve himself of his mail, then his jerkin, then his greaves and arm straps and finally his sword. When he wore nothing more than his tunic and his breeches, he carefully stepped around the large dire-wolf, settling behind her and pulling close to her, like he did when they slept.

She didn't protest (she knew he'd heard her words in the rose garden).

* * *

Severus, unfortunately, is the one to return from Winterfell when Denaerys sends for 'one of them' (because, he remembers, there must always be a Stark at Winterfell… and for their own safety, Bran and Rickon are still at Dragon's Lair). Sandor is the first to see him and when he does, he almost immediately goes to search for Hermione.

She is in the Training Court with a few of the Unsullied and works herself into a nice sweat (of which he, shortly, admires the sheen and the pearls that twinkle in the sun before moving down into the court).

He takes up seat next to Willas Tyrell, who looks at him with ill-veiled ire. Sandor raises his upper lip in disdain at the obvious dislike the man has for him (just because, for _once_, he is the preferred) but he hasn't the time for that today.

"Put away your childish anger and have a better look at the entrance, Roseboy. The moment a black-haired git enters this area, you push me off the bank – I want to be gone with her before he gets words with the kitten."

* * *

Willas is dumbfounded at first, by the fact that the Hound seems to give him orders, before slowly – ever so slowly – his mind picks up on other things and his eyes feed him new information.

There is an uncommon tension in the shoulders of the tall man and his eyes – or at least the good eye that he can perfectly observe – darts around almost hectically (he'd seen that last time in the battle against the Lannister guards), his large hands are balled into fists, resting on his thighs, his back is ramrod straight. The Lady Ambassador, even though jumping up and about the Unsullied in the arena, is never out of his sight, as are the entrances to the training field it seems.

When he catches up, Willas Tyrell almost forgets how to breathe.

The Hound is concerned for the Lady Ambassador.

His eyes dart around – but find no man fitting the, rather vague, description of the man next to him – and he asks himself who this man must be to incite such worry in the Hound.

* * *

He needs to see her – he can't help it (not really).

It has been almost two months now since the battle against the Lannister Forces, since he'd sat in the tree and watched as Hermione had been taken down by _The Mountain That Rides_ – Sandor Clegane's brother – right before the Hound had taken down the mountain in a duel that had been too gruesome to watch in total.

Sansa had agreed to have his hand in marriage, and they'd married – in the godswood, as was usual for the North, with Her Grace uniting them, and her family as witness. It had been a small ceremony, but Sansa had loved it (she told him so every day) and he loved her more, day by day.

What he'd done to Hermione… well that was in the past. But he hadn't been able to hold himself at her side; Sansa simply was the one woman he was meant to be with – he knew _that_ now. He fell so easily into step next to her, as Lord of Winterfell, his duties, archery, weaponry, running a Keep; it came so naturally to him that he knew he had been meant for this.

The young woman that had been his student once though… she'd changed. Right before his eyes she had developed power that could have saved them in the war (he dutifully ignored the little voice telling him that it _had _actually saved them and aided their cause in the war), she called Thor's Hammer to gift it away to some stupid smith, she commanded sea and air to slaughter a whole ship-train … she killed a noble house.

What or who Hermione was he was not so sure about – not anymore. Gone was the young, carefree woman in love with a stupid boy, ready to spread her ideals of peace and righteousness and in her place was someone he had not yet come to terms with. A woman whose whole being could concentrate on a weapon, who could dance through attackers as if they were water and slay them until she waded through rivers of blood. He knew he would, at least, need to beg her forgiveness for the way he had treated her (if only so they could bury the subject and never talk about it ever again) – even if he was not alright with what she had become.

(Not at all – because he feared to see how the war had changed her, and how she lusted for killing…)

* * *

The moment she saw a wisp of his black hair, she hightailed.

Assass, now fully grown, jumped up, baring his fangs at him – stalling. Hermione thought little, she reacted.

And in a focussed blast of energy, she apparated.

* * *

"Damn it!" he growled, grabbing the man by his jerkin to turn him to face him (still glad that he was taller). "Did I or did I not tell you to stay the hell away from her?" he snapped – unsurprised when anger shone in the nearly black eyes of the other man.

"I needed to talk to her." He drawled dangerously (Sandor could tell that _this_ was what Severus truly was when angry… not the yelling fool he'd been back then, months ago).

"And I told you to stay away from her, you son of a whore!" he yelled at the end, yanking at the jerkin. Clutching the jerkin harder and pulling him closer still, he leant down, towering over Severus. "You've hurt that girl more than she cares to admit. One word to her, Lord Stark, and your Lady will not be so happy anymore when she hears of your actions."

Because, as he let him go and slump to the ground ungracefully, they both knew that the sole reason why Hermione had _never_ spoken up (despite the many chances she's had) was Sansa's happiness.

But, and Hermione had told him so once, you cannot build your happiness on someone else's unhappiness – and the kitten was anything but happy.

He noticed Willas Tyrell not far from him, standing off to the side – he'd intervene should it be necessary, but was otherwise quite content just watching the Hound 'interact' with the 'black haired git'.

"I need to beg her forgiveness." The man said lowly as he straightened himself.

Sandor sneered. "Then wait until she doesn't run from you anymore, you twat." He growled. "You've laid a claim on her you never fulfilled – she ran around with your marks for as long as they would last, hoping that you _would_ grow a pair, despite the fact that you were getting very un-knightly with the Little Bird."

Severus this time, at least had the decency to look properly chastised (or as chastised as a man with pride and title could allow himself to look). "We're from a different time and a different place… those things are not uncommon for us, she knew what she was getting herself into."

The tall Clegane pulled a face – as if disgusted by a peculiar smell. "So? An independent woman can still want to be cared for you idiot. Or do you think the Little Bird to be dependent?"

(He'd never won a match by _talking_ and finding the right arguments… it felt surprisingly refreshing to win a battle of wits.)

* * *

When he found her – after half a day of riding hard – he was unsurprised to see her witching the hell out of herself.

Harrenhal was deserted – at least by now – and had been ruins ages before she (and Severus) had ever set foot into this world, into this country.

Stranger whinnied softly as he descended and he patted his neck calmingly, and, bending down to scratch Assass between the ears, watched as the witch, standing atop the hill, bathed in the late afternoon sun (almost setting sun) extended her two arms into the air, rising boulders and felled trees, restoring the destroyed seat of lords.

It had been so long since the Hall had last stood that the only real account of its glory came from children's stories and fairy-tales, but what the witch created was more ferocious than what he'd ever seen before.

The left-over structure widened, broadened, and soon gave way to a defensive wall around a Keep-to-be.

As he watched, the sun set, the boulders still flew, the trees still felled themselves, cut themselves, flew to arrange themselves, and all the while, the witch stood her ground, hand and wand raised, her magic so thick around her he could taste it.

(It was earthy, but warm – like raw rye and had a tinge of blood in it, but that was only the first taste. His second was like dusty tomes, dark wine and power… as were the tastes after the second.)

The moon rose, smiling his full smile down on the witch that still created art with magic – Sandor fell asleep alone, only Assass at his side.

* * *

When the first rays of sun tickled his large nose, he opened his eyes groggily, and swallowed the stale spit in the cavern of his mouth, before he stretched out the kinks in his back (sleeping in mail had been more bearable when he'd been younger still) and turned his head to look at the witch.

His mouth dropped.

He knew that she was able to do formidable things with her magic, but this… well _this_ was the most formidable he'd seen ever.

What had been the mere structure and hinting of a Keep hours ago when the sun had set and the moon had come out, was now so mighty, shiny and new that he could only stare. It looked like a High-Sept – almost. There was one large and high tower at the very back of a broad, market-hall-like main-building, cleverly raised to three levels, and constructed with a roof able to be walked and guarded.

As he stood to near the witch, he could see that she was shaking – and he knew that shaking was never a good omen (last time she'd stood shaking, she had almost dropped off a cliff). And, closing in on her, he watched as she slashed her wand a few times at the building, casting spells he could _feel_ blanket her creation.

(When they travelled and slept in their tent, she called them _wards_ as she stroke through thin air, muttering things in a strange language – he'd started to _feel_ them in their third week travelling. She'd only said that it was a sign of him becoming used to her magic.)

He reached her when she barely stood anymore, but with a last swish and flick, a twist of her wrist and turn of the wand, the front gate sprung into existence, a heavy, metal door with two wings that closed as her eyes closed and she sunk to her knees.

It took him a day to ride back, safely tucking his precious cargo between his arms and in front of him into his saddle.

(Queen Denaerys was most astounded when he recounted what he'd seen – Severus only turned a sour look at him.)

* * *

He could not bring himself to leave her side – not this time either and so stayed for days at her bed-side (during day) and in her bed (during night).

For as long as he could, he cuddled close to her, took her in his arms and splayed her this way or that (over his chest at times), or simply cradled her in his massive chest, hiding her from the rest of the world – sometimes he would also only put his head on her stomach and let the sounds of her body lull him to sleep.

On the third day, at noon, she woke, safely tucked into his massive arms, pulled close to his chest, his nose in her hair, his right hand splayed over her back, his left hand carefully cradling her neck and lower head.

(He was the luckiest man alive when she woke in his arms.)

* * *

Hermione smiled when she first got to see (truly see) the Keep she had stomped out of nothing. Farmers and Beggars from the Forest had started to set themselves up in the vast space between the Keep and the Wall and the men had even started a sort of militia (though not a very good one in his opinion) that patrolled the wall.

They made their way into the village, Hermione watching giddily as children ran around, splaying each other with mud, dogs barking, running after them – in front of the keep stood a tall man (a butcher judged by his frame) and roasted a deer, giving away to those who came to fetch and cutting the rest into a cauldron of stew next to him.

The witch dismounted her mare, allowing a small boy to take her over and into a small huddle for all sorts of animals in exchange for a full loaf of bread (courtesy of the Queen, who'd sent a packed mule of food with them).

As he hoisted the sack of bread onto Stranger's back (so as to not have to give him away in fear he might bite one of the people… and relieving the poor mule partly of its burden), he watched as Mormont watched the young woman flock towards the butcher and humbly beg three bowls of stew for them.

The man looked, for a second as if he was going to say no, before she threw him her most disarming of smiles and was rewarded with the food – as he sat on the stairs of the Keep and watched the bustling of people, eating, he shook his head at her.

"You could have bribed him with bread in exchange." He said, taking another mouthful of the stew – the deer was good, fresh and juicy in his mouth. She shrugged and smiled again. "Why should I? The bread is theirs anyway and as it is, I've grown quite tired of your stale bread and hard cheese."

He threw her a mocking glare and diligently ignored Mormont's amused snort from behind him, but had to agree that the stew _did_ loosen up their diet as of late (they'd needed longer still this time around due to the poor packed mule).

* * *

"Ser, excuse me for asking this if it makes you uncomfortable, but is there a way to distribute these evenly among this small village?" she asked softly, showing the butcher the sacks of food and seed they had. The bald man's eyes grew huge as he looked at the load and then at the witch.

"M'lady, pardon me for asking so rudely, but who are you?"

She smiled benignly: "The Ambassador of Her Queen Denaerys-"

"The Witch!" the man exclaimed, taking a step back.

Hurt flashed in Hermione's eyes and he could see as she took a step back herself, folding her head to her chest, biting her lip. "Aye…" she said softly, playing with the hem of her cloak. "The witch."

As soon as she had ascertained this, the man broke out in a big smile. "M'lady! Thank you so much for creating this!"

She was swung around in a large circle and Jorah raised both eyebrows at the way the young woman was treated. But as the butcher began to explain, things got clear very quickly – Lannisters had, passing through their village, pillaged, plundered and burned down what meagre things they'd lived with and since then the small group of people had travelled through the woods, hoping to find some solace somewhere.

One of their children had witnessed her workings and had told them – naturally they hadn't believed him, until they had went with him and seen the miracle for themselves; they'd been here ever since.

Hermione smiled broadly – he could see _tears_ in her eyes – and, asking her question again, was soon surrounded by the people of the village, holding their hands out for bread and seed. There was enough for everyone it seemed (almost too much), but the villagers knew that this was a blessing to be cared for.

When they bid them goodbye on their second day (the mule staying behind for transportation only – Hermione had been very clear about that) they waved the villagers until the forest swallowed them.

(She smiled into his chest when they held each other that night.)

* * *

Jorah paced up and down in the corridor, sweat pearling down his temple, his hands clutched behind his back. Each time the Queen gave a cry, he tried barrelling his way through the door, but Hermione had made certain to install Sandor in front of it to keep Jorah out of the chambers.

With a smug look on his face, the Hound watched the Bear pace like a lion in a cage. Jorah growled. "Just wait until you get your first pups, you won't be so smug then."

He was about to tell the man that he would never have pups because you needed a woman for that and he hadn't even had a whore in six moons now, but just as he opened his mouth, another cry reached their ears – and everything stilled.

The cry was faint, high and angry – it was clear to both men, seasoned warriors in their own rights, that this cry came from something small. Jorah's eyes widened and he tried to barrel his way through again, Sandor held him back just in time.

* * *

"I present to you, Prince Taerys and Princess Lyanna of House Targearyan." The witch smiled softly, holding the princess, while the queen held the prince. When Jorah entered the room fully, she reached for his arms to settle the princess into them, teaching him how to hold his child correctly.

He'd never seen Mormont cry before that – although he must have when his former love died – but even as the heavy tears rolled down his cheeks, he smiled, crossing the room slowly, with his calm child in his arms, making his way to his queen.

"Twins." She said smiling, reaching up with her free arm to take his free hand as he sat down next to her, kissing the crown of her head.

"You've made me the proudest father and man in the whole kingdom."

Hermione gently tugged at his tunic, silently leaving the room and giving the royal pair space. The witch smiled, lacing her hand into his.

"You're happy about the pups aren't ya?" he asked softly and Hermione only nodded, bobbing her head before looking at the floor, smiling softly.

"There is nothing as magical as a new life, not even my powers." She admitted, giving his hand a squeeze and looking up. "I can take lives easily, but to create one it takes two people… and to bring it to life it takes strong will." She smiled again. "It puts me into awe every time I'm allowed to see it happen."

(Whenever he saw the twins over the next week, he had to admit that she was right – new life was awe-inspiring.)

* * *

Brienne of Tarth was sworn as the shield of the princess, Jaime Lannister as the shield of the prince – Sandor knew that the two of them had something else than friendship going on between the two of them, but who was he to judge (he hadn't exactly been abstinent in the short time he'd been sworn Head of the King's Guard either). And so he watched, Hermione at his side, as the twins were introduced to the villagers and soldiers of the Dragon's Lair.

The remaining Dothraki danced wildly that night, while the Unsullied put down their spears for once. Jorah walked around like a Bear who'd got the Honey and Denaerys Targaeryan glowed more beautifully than she had ever before.

Hermione tutted and giggled with the children whenever the Queen would take her out on a walk through the gardens – Brienne and Jaime never far, as was Jorah and Sandor (truly the children couldn't grow up more guarded than they were) and enjoyed the simple way their eyes would widen when they saw something new.

At night she lost her stiff composure in his arms and soon laid her arm around his middle when she turned towards him, or put her hand against his chest in a comforting manner, their legs would tangle and in the morning, more often than not, she ended up splayed over his chest (the way he liked it best).

* * *

Willas Tyrell smiled at the small children as they wiggled on their mother's and father's laps, not quite sure if they wanted to suck the paste from their fingers or not – it seemed that there was a conversation going on between the two of them that neither of the grown-ups understood but all of them enjoyed immensely.

It was Lyanna who opened her mouth first and when a contented 'mmh' reached their ears, Taerys opened his mouth as well, accepting the food. They were too young for anything else than milk, really, but Denaerys had wanted to see if they would be amenable to other ways of feeding as well (her milk had dried out too early) and was relieved to find that her fair-haired children took to it like dragons to flying.

A month into his life at the royal court, he had to admit that life here was quite adventurous, even while being calm – there was always some drama to watch (the maids were always up for that), or action to take in (the Unsullied, after all, left no day out on their training) and if he felt like spying a little, there was also a bit of romance to sniff out.

The Lady Ambassador – The Witch, as she was called – smiled openly at the Queen and her children and he asked himself if perchance, she fancied herself in love with the idea of having some of her own.

He knew that, despite his warnings, she still shared her chambers with that beast – had even gone as far as to declare her own chambers free, since she never spent any time in them. However, as he watched the Hound and the Witch, he soon became aware that there was something more between them (the way there was something more between Jaime Lannister and the Maiden of Tarth). There was something about the way she would seek out his silent company when he whetted his sword and she needed someplace quiet, or the way he would always itch for a fight when she was angry and needed to let off steam (he couldn't even _count_ the spars between them anymore, lest of all keep score), or the way she knew just exactly how to make him shut up in front of another delegate from that or that Keep or Castle, and the way he squeezed her hand whenever she looked at the children (or when the black haired git was near).

They may not see it yet, but for once Willas Tyrell, the Roseboy, saw a flower bloomed before others had even noticed its' bud.

* * *

The morning had started out well.

He'd woken up with his head between her teats, one of her legs strewn over his torso, the other bent at the knee, the smoothness pushed softly against his lower abdomen (and below), one of his arms was wound around her hip, the other served as his pillow, his hand loosely clutched by hers.

She was stroking his hair with her other hand, soft caresses on his burnt scalp, and when he woke up, she smiled at him, continuing to comb through his black locks.

He sighed in contentment, and pulled her closer, effectively ending up with his nose between her breasts (even though clothed… barely) and rubbed the skin on her waist, soft beneath his hands.

"Why do you allow me to monopolize you so?" she asked softly, still combing through his hair.

"Because I'm a selfish man, and I give as good as I get."

She huffed a smile, understanding what he said without words. _Because if all he got from her was monopoly on him that empowered him to the same rights – exclusively. _

"And why wait so long?" she asked again, slightly scratching at his scalp. He grumbled happily at the feeling.

"You were worse than a wounded wolf, Kitten." He said softly, opening his eyes – through the soft tissue he could _see _her skin, so milky… so perfect. Tilting his head slightly, he raised his eyes to hers. "If I'd have tried to monopolize you then I would have gotten pain for my pain of even trying." He admitted, before he brazenly pushed his lips to her cloth, right before his head. "If I waited for you to come to me I would get all of you and you would be able to control the how and when." He shrugged. "Small price to pay when you consider it."

She hummed softly, bending fully over him – immersing his head between her lush teats – and splaying her hands on his back. "Why would you even want me…?" she sighed softly.

He smirked then, disentangling himself from her and laying down to face her. "Because you, witch, are yourself and can be yourself without inhibitions if you so choose to. You bind yourself only to those you wish to bind yourself to." He pulled her closer to him. "That and you can swear like a fucking sailor."

She laughed then, pressing a soft kiss to his chest.

* * *

Sansa's eyes nearly bulged when the two of them exited his room – Sandor almost falling over the Little Bird. There was an awkward pause between the three of them, before Hermione curtsied – perfectly: "Mylady Sansa." She greeted and, shooting him a look, went on her way to the Hall to break her fast.

Tully blue eyes watched her retreat, before they found his worried ones. "Severus had told me… but I hadn't believed it." She said softly and for a second he thought about telling her some more things she wouldn't believe, but then she smiled at him. "I'm glad it is the truth though – although that means that my travel here has been largely for naught."

He quirked an eyebrow, offering her his arm – gracefully she linked hers in his. "Has it now, Little Bird?"

She sighed softly. "Aye. I have found out that I am with child and had hoped that you would swear your shield to it… however, I have seen now that you cannot do that." She smiled again at him, her pearly teeth showing. "You are not alone and therefore you have to think of others as well… I am glad."

Content he led her into the rose garden. "But… tell me Sandor, it is said that… that she has been robbed of her virtue…" she said softly, looking at him as she sat on a bench.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Aye, that she has been. Before we met them, it seems, a man promised her to take care of her, to claim her if she would just give him a taste."

His Little Bird frowned. "The bite marks…" she remembered. "But she wore them so long." She said then. "Why would she wear them so long when she had the means to get rid of them?"

Grasping, more than the Little Bird, the delicacy of the situation, but not wishing to lie to an old friend, he bent forth, supporting his elbows on his knees. "Because the man was never far from her, I suppose." He shrugged, hoping that his comment would not strike the young lady as too close to home. "Otherwise I am as in the dark as you are, my lady."

He smiled when he named her by her title and she only rolled her eyes swatting at his shoulder. "Don't call me that – I've travelled here in hopes of a reprieve from the courtly life."

"Be still my heart!" he mocked, clutching at his jerkin, "Her Lady Stark wishes a reprieve from courtly life! Surely the world is coming to an end!"

The young woman laughed, a tinkling sound, a sound he'd been in love with not all that long ago. He'd tried thinking back to that time, tried to think back to one of his illusions of a future he could only imagine, with the Little Bird at his side – but all he'd managed to conjure in front of his mind's eye had been Hermione's face. He'd known then that he was truly well into it more than he'd thought, but he was too content to have it that way.

And he was content now: walking through the Dragon's Lair with the Lady Stark at his side, thinking little of things of importance, simply having a talk with a good friend.

When she retired to her room that night, supposed to return to Winterfell early the next morrow, he accompanied her. They'd had their supper in the Hall with most of the Lair's inhabitants and his Little Bird had finally set eyes upon the Targaeryan offspring (and yes, he'd seen the tear in her eye when holding Lyanna), but his witch had not been there and so he'd returned his attention to the visitor from Winterfell.

The young woman in question turned before her door, catching his eyes with a heavy gaze and words on her lips that she wouldn't voice. Sandor, an expert at reading his companion of nigh a year, smiled and pushed closer, bending just ever so slightly to catch what she would say.

"I… do not know how to say this properly, but I feel that I should say it and so I ask of you not to laugh at me."

Surprised he straightened his back, taking her in with a critical look, before bending again – she seemed nervous, her finger twiddling. Gathering her courage, the young Lady looked to the ground, and, very softly, said: "I have loved you once."

For a second only, he was stumped, before he straightened his back and looked down at Sansa, the healthy corner of his mouth twitching up in a slight smirk. "As have I, Lady Sansa."

She smiled softly as well, lowering her eyes again, looking at her twiddling fingers. "I am happy now."

"Aye." He agreed. "As am I."

Looking up, she met him with a brilliant smile and, once again, Sandor complemented himself for having had the sense of staying away from Sansa. She was in love with Severus, no matter how much of an arsehole the man truly was in his opinion, and they would never stand here if he wouldn't have held himself back.

Reaching up on her tip-toes, she put her arms to his shoulders and leaned in, hugging him briefly, chastely, as old friends did – Sandor only put a hand to her shoulder, relishing in the contact and the knowledge that he had gained a friend; a true friend. He, Sandor Clegane.

(There were many strange things happening as of late, things he'd never supposed _could_ even happen to him.)

As they parted, he wished her a good night and a safe travel and the pregnant Lady Stark of Winterfell, curtsied perfectly, thanking him for his well-wishes, bidding him good-night, before she retreated into her quarters.

He was off, light-hearted and light-footed, to find his witch.

* * *

When he found her, she was brushing off Stranger in the stable; only the dim light of the lantern hanging on a beam illuminating the dark. Knowing she'd noticed him from the moment on he'd stepped into the stable, he didn't try to conceal himself – she had acute eyes and even better hearing, nigh to nothing escaped her.

Nearing her from behind, he calmly put his hand over her brushing one, stilling it and softly winding his arm around her mid-section, pulling her closer, just so.

Up this close, the tremors in her body made his hands and his arms thrum – it could have been from anger, he thought for the split of a second, but then remembered how her magic had danced through her hair the last time she'd been scorned.

"How is the Lady Stark?" she asked in a soft voice, tearing him out of his puzzling.

"Fine. With child it appears." For a moment her breath hitched – or perhaps he only imagined it. "She has come to ask me to swear my shield to it."

The hand on the brush tightened beneath his; he could feel the tension travelling from the external limb up her arm and into her shoulders. Still, his witch would not turn her head to him.

And it was then, as she spoke, that finally he solved the puzzle. "Are you leaving then?"

Because, of course, she would expect of him to leave – after all, it's what Severus had done to her, the man she'd last allowed close to her. Now he was Lord of Winterfell, sparing her not a thought. Sandor had worked hard to break through to her, which was uncommon for him – back in King's Landing, he'd simply gone in search of a whore whenever he'd felt the need (although those days had now been long past; he'd learned to control his urges in Sansa's proximity) – and still she expected him to leave for the Little Bird, for whom one man had already left her.

Taking her hand off his horse and allowing the brush to drop, he collected her closer into his embrace, although he had to admit that by now it was almost like cuddling with a statue, she was that stiff.

"No." he gruffly answered. "I'm not. And when she saw you she didn't even ask anymore. She'll travel back tomorrow."

Hermione turned in his arms, looking at him with her big, golden eyes, swimming with tears she wouldn't allow herself to shed – again, like the last time. "You're not-"

"-leaving." He finished with her, before he collected her in his arms again, pulling her close. "I'm not leaving you, Kitten."

* * *

Denaerys Targaeryan looked closely at the pair that descended the steps to the Dining Hall that morning.

As usual, the Hound and the Witch would come down to break their fast with the rest of the Castle's inhabitants, together. But today, instead of only a close proximity of their bodies, the tall man had the young woman on his arm, escorting her most gallantly. She was laughing softly when they descended, judged, by the wry smirk on his face, from something he'd said.

Feeding Taerys from her breakfast, she watched covertly as he led her to her seat, pulling it out for her and pushing it back as she sat – like any man, raised at court, would have.

But then, she knew that Sandor Clegane had never truly been raised at court, and even if, he'd never felt the need to act gallantly to any woman – but then, he was a quick study and, if he so pleased, could play aces no one would ever have thought of him possessing. Tilting her head, she watched on as her ambassador and her guard went about to break their fast, Hermione talking to a Dothraki woman next to her, Sandor entering a rather light conversation with Jaime.

Feeding Taerys another piece, her eyes flew to her husband, who was babbling with their daughter in a language he didn't understand but that she enjoyed a lot – when their eyes met, he smiled, and she couldn't help but return the mimic. After all, he was her light and her love.

Thinking back on Hermione, she found her eyes soon back on her Ambassador again, unsurprised when she realized that the unoccupied hands of Clegane and the witch were resting on the table-top, touching innocently.

Denaerys' smile widened as she returned her attention to her boy – perhaps Hermione might be able to forget Severus' blunder and move on to a man who thought of her as worthy.

She knew that Sandor would.

* * *

**Tadaaa! It's a bit shorther than the first installment, and there's still no smexy Sandor/Hermione time BUT I plan to remedy that, perhaps this month even during another bout of procrastination (although perhaps it might take loner if I find my discipline). **

**So, love to you all (and a happy New Year, by the way, even if it's rather... late to say so ;P)**


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